Pseudo Normal
by DawnTwilight
Summary: Jim is trying to deal with the repercussions of the insidious disease that is slowly changing his best friend.


Notes: A prologue of sorts to the sequel of Quasi Pseudo, or maybe just an interlude. This is part of the rest of my true life story. Hope you enjoy. Feedback always welcomed .

Not betaed and a very special thanks to Slery, who just kept asking what came next.

*~*~*

He lay on his side, mouth slightly open, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling in a sleeper's deep rhythm. One hand is tucked under his flat pillow and the other lay lightly near his stomach and even though it rumbles with hunger, Blair doesn't stir.

The small room under the loft is shadowed from the late afternoon sun, the blinds pulled and a blanket drapes the window on the fire escape door making the darkness almost complete.

The breakfast I made him before leaving for work this morning still sits on his bedside table, the eggs congealed and runny, the toast soggy, and a half a cup of orange juice leaving a condensation ring on the hard wood.

He mumbles and turns, resting on his back, flinging his arm up and over his eyes as if the dim light filtering in through the french doors from the living room hurt his eyes. But he doesn't wake up and I wonder as I hold his bottle of tiny pills, what if he missed just one dose...would it really hurt all that much?

He hates taking them, hates how they make him feel and how they rob him of his time…of his life.

The first morning after he started the titrated program it took me over twenty minutes to wake him up and now, well sometimes I'm not so sure he really is awake, even though he's up and moving.

He's three weeks into his regimen. He only has another week to go before he will be up to his full dosage and then Dr. Gordon assures us the side effects will wane…Blair will adjust.

"Hey, man…what time is it?" He's peeking at me from under his arm and I pull his door closed a little more, blocking some of the faint light.

"Almost four…you want to get a shower…I can make you a sandwich or something."

He flips back his blanket and sits up slowly, resting his head in his cupped hands, "Yeah…I guess."

I leave him alone to get himself up, to get himself together.

Flipping the lamp off in the living room, I move to the kitchen, intent on making something he'll be able to get down, something palatable. He told me last night, after pushing his spaghetti around on his plate, that everything tastes funny, metallic. And I know that certain smells made him sick to his stomach.

It's like his senses are out of control, another side effect that should go away with in a few weeks.

And I want to help him. Help him like he helps me.

His door opens and I hear him shuffle slowly down the hall.

I catch a glance at him out of the corner of my eye, as I spread some humus on some flat bread. He has one hand raised and running along the wall, using it to support, to help him not stumble over his own feet.

And he's getting so thin. I can't believe how much weight he's lost in the last couple of weeks. His shorts hang low on his hips and his t-shirt is loose around the sleeves and collar.

I hear the bathroom door closing and then the water comes on.

He's running a bath.

I know the hot water helps with the aches and pains and I also know that he slipped the other day while I was at work. He doesn't tell me as much, but the bruise on his back is evidence enough. I saw it that night when I went to check on him. His shirt was riding up and the collecting blood had already started turning a deep purple.

Dizziness is yet another side effect.

By the time he comes back down the hall, a towel wrapped around his waist, I have his food done and a cup of hot tea waiting.

I really want pizza or maybe a sub, but I'll wait until Blair eats and lies back down. He can't stomach so much of what he used to love.

Blair comes out of his room dressed in sweats and ratty socks and I see that he hasn't washed his hair.

I think about offering to help, but I don't want him to feel like he can't take care of his own basic needs. Since showers are out for the time being, he would have to wash his hair while in the tub and the logistics just don't work for him anymore.

He hasn't said, but I know he doesn't want to have to bend over the tub to wash it, or maybe he just doesn't want to bother with it at all.

He's so tired, even now he's eyes are drooping and I wonder if he'd been up at all today or if he'd stayed in bed the whole time.

Blair's watching me as I putter around in the kitchen; I can feel his eyes on my back, probably wondering if I'm going to join him for dinner.

"Did you eat, man?" he finally asks.

"I had a late lunch," I turned to look at him, plastering a smile on my face, because he can read me so well. "Go ahead and eat."

He picks at his bread, shredding it to bits and pieces, but some makes it into his mouth.

After I put away some of last nights dinner dishes I came and sat with him, picking up the morning paper that neither of us had time to read.

He's still working on his sandwich, but I can tell he isn't enjoying it.

At least the tea seems to agree with him. He's eyes close in pleasure with each sip.

The entertainment section has an article about a new art exhibit at the museum of history this coming weekend. When I look up at him to tell him, he's eyes are closed and his mug is slanting, about to spill.

I reach across the table and carefully right the mug. He greets me with glassy blue eyes.

When he speaks his speech is lazy and slurred. "Sorry, man…I think I'm gonna go lay down for awhile." He pushes away from the table and then hangs on and sways a little before getting his balance. "Can you wake me up at eight…I want to see that movie on…it's that show…it's about…"

"Sure thing, Chief." I hate to cut him off, but it kills me to see him reaching for words, to have to think so hard about what he wants to say, the look of utter frustration on his face. It's easier this way. I know what he means anyway…I always do.

I hear the box spring squeaking as he lies down, hear his clothes moving across the sheets beneath him as he tries to find a comfortable spot.

But before he falls asleep he has to do one more thing.

I reach for the pill bottle and shake out three.

Something flashes in his eyes…gratefulness because he has forgotten it is time to take his meds and then maybe a little resentment because I remembered…a little dread because he doesn't have a choice in this.

He _has_ to take them.

"Here ya go." I say and hand him the drugs. He looks at them for a second and then palms the pills, swallowing them down with the day old orange juice.

"Thanks…don't forget to wake me."

I nod as I back out of the room, pulling the doors close behind me. Before I made it to the living room I can hear his gentle snoring and know that he is already deeply asleep.

The bottle is still in my hand and I toss it hard across the room, not very satisfied with the tiny thump and rattle they made as the bottle bounces off the brick wall.

How could something so small make such a profound difference in a person?

But deep down I know…it's not the drugs, not really…it's the disease.

And it's winning.

Each day it's taking Blair farther and farther away from me, leaving me with something...less then the man I know.

And as I listen to the soft breathing coming from the room under the loft, thinking about the weeks to come I realize, it's only the beginning.

*~*~*

The beginning of the end...


End file.
